The Plain Bride by Chasity Bowlin
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
If anyone had told him that the plainly dressed vicar’s daughter would be such a passionate creature, he would have thought them mad. There was shyness, yes, but also eagerness and a willingness to be guided that left him trembling as he battled his own need for her.
Above all things, he would make the night pleasurable for her. He would allow her to see what passion and desire could truly make one feel. With that thought uppermost in mind, he placed one hand over the lush curve of her breast. The softness of that flesh, the weight of it in his hand, ratcheted his own need to a torturous level, but still he ignored it. Instead, he dragged the pad of his thumb over the hardened peak of her nipple and was rewarded with a shattered moan from her.
He repeated the gesture, each touch slightly different, each one driving her farther along that path to true completion. But when he dipped his head and took that pebbled bud into his mouth, her hands delved into his hair, holding him to her as she cried out. It was a moment of perfection for him, a moment that would be committed to memory for all time. Was there any greater victory in all his wretched life than to bring an innocent beauty to the fruition of passion and pleasure?
With that thought upper most in his mind, he continued to lavish attention on her sensitive nipples—laving with his tongue, nipping with his teeth—and as he did so, he began to slide his hand over her hips, along the long line of her thigh. He stroked her flesh with gentle persuasion until he could slip his hand between her thighs.
She stiffened beneath him, but only for a second. Then she took a deep, shuddering breath and parted for him, welcoming him.
He brushed the dark curls there, gently coaxing a response from her. And when she let out a broken sigh, only then did he slip one finger between the folds of her sex. The wet heat that greeted him had him gritting his teeth even as he stroked her tender flesh. Finding the small, taut nub that would quickly bring her to release, he watched her every response to determine what it was that she needed. Speed, intensity, the firmness or gentleness of his touch—he tailored it to her response, and the reward was her body straining beneath him, her thighs trembling as the pressure built within her.
“What are you doing to me?” she asked, her voice hoarse and breathless as she arched against him.
“You’ll know soon enough,” he whispered hotly. And then he moved down the bed to press a kiss against the seam of her sex, inhaling her scent.
She let out a startled gasp, but it soon turned into a throaty moan as he pressed his tongue against her.
The taste of her was exquisite beyond his wildest imaginings. And he was so hungry for her that, even when he felt her shuddering with a violent release, he didn’t stop. He drove her up and over that peak again and again, reveling in her unfettered response to him as she sobbed his name brokenly.
Only when she had collapsed bonelessly against the mattress did he lever himself up so that his body was pressed between her thighs. He could feel the heat of her against him through the fabric of his breeches. Fumbling with the buttons, as the fabric was stretched taut over his erection, he finally managed to free himself from the constricting garment. Fitting himself against her, he pressed in swiftly, piercing the barrier of her innocence with one sharp thrust.
She didn’t cry out, but she did tense beneath him, her fingers digging into his shoulders so that he could feel the bite of her nails on his skin. He stilled against her, waiting for that pain to pass. And when she relaxed again, when the tension fled her muscles and she looked up at him without the haze of pain in her eyes, only then did he begin to move. Slowly, gently, with short and shallow strokes, he moved within her. And then her eyelids fluttered closed, her back arched, and she gave herself up once more to the pleasure he was stirring inside of her.
He found the strength of will, somehow, to maintain that rhythm until he felt her shuddering with pleasure once more. The clutch of her heated flesh around him was more than he could bear, however. Thrusting deep one last time, he let his release wash through him, spilling himself inside her. And his only thought was that he hoped he did not get her with child. Not immediately. That was the sort of pleasure he would not readily give up for some time. The longer it took to give her what she wanted, the longer he could keep her for himself.
Althea awoke to an empty room.It was still dark, the curtains still drawn at the windows, but the fire had recently been stoked and blazed cheerily in the hearth. Reaching out, she touched the bed beside her and found it still warm. A noise from the sitting room prompted her to look up, and then he appeared in the doorway, wearing only his breeches. In one hand he carried a glass of wine and in another a plate laden with bread and cheese, left over from their light supper.
“I worked up an appetite,” he offered with a grin. “I imagine you did as well.”
She couldn’t stop the blush from stealing into her cheeks any more than she could halt the rumbling of her stomach in response to his question. She had indeed worked up an appetite. “I’m famished.”
He crossed the room to the bed and sat the plate between them. “It’s a very good thing, then, that I’m of a mind to share.”
“I thought you’d gone,” she admitted.
“I considered it,” he said. “You are too tempting, and you are not used to the demands and rigors of a night like the one we’ve just shared. Every time I look at you, I want you again, but it’s too soon for you.”
He’d made love to her twice already. And if she were completely honest, she was sore. Her body ached from their exertions, but she’d gladly suffer that and more for the pleasure that he promised. Ducking her head, she looked away, embarrassed to acknowledge her own wantonness.
As if he’d peered into her mind to know that thought, he reached out to lift her chin with his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to meet his gaze. “There is no shame in what we have done, not in the act or in your pleasure in it.”
“That is not what I have always been told. Women should not—”
“Should not listen to those who tell them their own bodies are wicked or sinful,” he interrupted. “No doubt this was more wisdom imparted by your worthless father.”
“It was,” she admitted.
“Thea, I am not a religious man. In fact, I am as far from it as any man can be. I’m not even certain that I believe God exists,” he offered, his voice soft and low. “But if he does, and if he made us in his own perfect image, then there is nothing about what our bodies are capable of that can be wrong. Our bodies are made to find pleasure in this act and, within the confines of marriage, there is no shame or sin in it. Anyone who says differently does so for their own purposes. Your father chose to humiliate and torment you at every turn. I cannot imagine that this was any different: a way to keep you under his thumb and prevent your being tempted to marry and leave him without a target for his abuse.”
“I hate him,” she admitted. “I have hated him all my life. But there was nowhere to go. He made certain that I would never have any offers of marriage. There was no escape. I often think that my mother died simply to get away from him.”
“Whatever happens between us, you will never have to go back there. I make very few promises in my life, but that is one I offer freely, and it will be kept. Now, eat something, and we’ll see if perhaps I can’t find some creative way to make love to you that won’t result in you not being able to walk tomorrow.”
She had no interest in food suddenly. “It would be a small enough price to pay.”
His eyes flashed even in the dim light from the fire. Without hesitation, he moved the plate to the table beside the bed and then pushed her back against the pillows. “In that case, we should indulge ourselves fully.”
